Utterly Mad

Neon Apocalypse: Innocence

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Her bleach blonde ponytail swaying from side-to-side, in tune with her footsteps. "When are we going to get there?" The small boy no younger than nine asked his sister, gripping his rumbling stomach. "Eventually." She was fourteen and she already had to mature faster then most people in the apocalypse, trusting nobody for obvious reasons. They both saw it on the corner of the street "The Almighty Granola Bar-11", the young one darted ahead of his sister. "Dammit! Kyle! Get back here!" Furious, she darted towards her younger brother, grabbing the back of his shirt and yanking him back; causing Kyle to lose his footing and fall flat on his butt. "Let go! You know what Mom said about swearing." He coldly stared back into his sister's eyes, before swatting her hand away and getting up off the street.

"Well Mom isn't here. And you know what she told you about running off into stores without me!" Snapping back at her brother's remark. She started slowly approaching the store, pulling a 38. Revolver out of her messenger bag that was covered in orange duct-tape.

*dee-doo* The store electronically beeped as the duo swung open the door. Inside was empty, no sounds other then their footsteps on the scuffed linoleum floor. Shelves were over turned and food lay scattered on the ground, their feet stuck to the floor as they made their way past the beverage machines; the soda machine had sprung a leak, causing the syrups to ooze out of the machine and spill onto the floor. The Sister made an audible groan as she crossed over it, tearing her feet from the floors. While her brother seemed to be enjoying it, jumping around in it as if it were a rain puddle. "Quit messing around, we need to get home before dark!" Scolding her brother once more as she went over to the canned goods. Shockingly it was the only section that hadn't been raided yet, with the only missing foods being from her runs over to this store. "...28, 29.... 35..." She counted how many cans were left, making sure that no one else had been hitting her stash. "Alright there should be enough for all of us tonight!" She hollered across the store, sliding cans of beans, sardines, 'nachos-n-cans', and a fine selection of "CRAM".




"I can't believe they don't let you take the Katana on these runs.", Razz followed closely behind "Mitch", waving his shotgun around and ended up pointing it straight at his head. Slapping the barrel away from him, he replied, "Because its a film prop, nothing more. That blade is so dull that it probably came from some neckbeard's collection of "weapons"." The two had started entering into downtown Miami, the large cubic buildings that had been worn down from age and Cataclysmic events; with large blotches of blood being splattered on the walls that were close to street level, normally with a corpse sitting or laying in front of it. Up ahead the two saw a couple of places to raid: A nightclub, some apartments that didn't have raider graffiti plastered all over it, and up in the distance a small mini-mart that still had its neon and lights still on. "Yeah? Well if you ask me, that's a load of shit. The thing could probably still bludgeon someone to dea- Hey wait a minute!" Razz stopped in the middle of the road. "Then how in the Hell were you able to slice that tank?"

"Simple. Hollywood Magic." He smirked, pushing past Razz and continuing down the street. Razz jogged back up to Mitch, twirling his shotgun in his right hand. "... Whatever. So have you given my idea any thought?" He asked. "No.", the other responded, fishing their pistol out of their robotic arm. "Why not? Is it because you think that he might get us?" "Because up north is full of raiders, zombies, acid rain, and other horrors that I wish to not meet again."

The pair approached the sliding glass doors of the mini-mart, with the same bleeping chime going off as before. "Alright, but what if we ran towards Cali or something. Heard that there's some Artifact collectors coming down from the north in a couple of days.", he said rummaging loudly behind the counter. Hoping to find some left over jerky or an untouched stash of canned goods. "FREEZE!" A squeaky prepubescent voice shouted at the man. Razz immediately whipped out his shotty and started aiming it in a quick sweep around the store, a loud shot rang out and Razz dropped his gun. His ears were ringing, his hand felt like it was stung by mutant bees, and he was pretty sure the place was getting colder.

Looking down at his palm he saw that in the middle of his 'exploded' flesh was a scrunched up piece of metal, blood leaked out of the wound like some macabre fountain of wine. "Ow-w.", he sputtered out. "YOU DON'T FUCKING MOVE EITHER!", the voice sounded like it was moving to the other side of the store. Looking up, he saw that "Mitch" had his hands high in the air, staring straight ahead at the wall. Not looking down.

"Alright, behind the counter get over here." Razz obeyed the orders and went over to where "Mitch" was, weakly holding up his hands. He saw a young girl, bleach blonde hair, blue hoodie, orange messenger bag, torn up jeans, and sneakers that looked way too big on her feet; and behind her was most likely her brother, a boy with messy "surfer-dude" brown hair, wearing a grey T-Shirt with "The Highway" across it in huge orange letters, with orange palm tree swimming trunks, and flip flops that housed his dirty feet. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me?" "Dude shut-up."

"Yeah. Do what he says!", she waved the gun towards "Mitch". "Listen, we just need some foo-" Another shot rang out, and the two men winced as the projectile sailed between the two (not hitting them); shattering the front glass window that was behind them. "No! This is our claim, now turn around or I put one between both your eyes!" Pulling the lever back and readjusting her aim back on the talkative one. "Alright we'll go," "Mitch" started slowly backing out of the shop before being pushed back by Razz. "Oh Hell no, we're getting something. I'm not going back to Timmy and telling him we didn't find anything, because we were held up at gunpoint. BY A KID!", he threw down his arms in anger.

Yet another shot rang out, and Razz threw his hands back in the air. "Alright fine, we'll go! Just stop with the shooting!" Both of them turned tail and ran out of the store.

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"Mrs. Oliver" pressed the end of the ballpoint pin up to her lips. "They should've been back by now, where the hell are they?", she muttered under her breath. Looking over the highway that led straight into downtown Miami. The wind started to pick up, rustling the palm trees leaves around. It was so peaceful out here. She heard a crunch sound out behind her, "Are they back yet?" The Director asked, his bathrobe fluttering behind him like a cape. "What do you think Sir?" She turned to greet the man. He was in nothing but slippers, his underwear, and as stated before a bathrobe (that was hotpink!); his hair was long black hair was tied in a small pony tail, with the rest of his "hot mess" flowing all over his face. And for once he trimmed that Godawful beard of his. "Figures. Next time, I'll leave the decision making to you. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some more movies to watch and a script to write." He briskly jogged back to his wooden trailer and slammed the door.

Looking longingly over the moon lit beach, she sighed. Thinking about what her life would've been if the damn Cataclysm hadn't struck when it did, shaking the thoughts out of her mind she proceeded towards her trailer. Hopefully tomorrow won't have as many takes.

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"Mitch" and Razz stood on top of the RV, a horde of zombies were below them. Clawing away at the peeling paint work and rusted metal, with each screech being more ear-grating then the last. Turns out all the gunfire attracted some zombies that happened to be "sleeping" under the overpass that they crossed into town on, and now all those said zombies were waiting for their meal to come down. "You did bring your gun right?", he asked backing away to the center of the RV's roof. Nearly falling into the hatch the climbed through to get up here. "I uh... left it in my other arm." "Mitch" nervously laughed as he peeked over the side of the RV, getting the zombies more riled up. "*sigh* Fuck..."

Tune into another exciting adventure tomorrow... and if you people actually want this to go on!

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OOC Shizz: So I was going to delete the thread until I saw three people wanted me to continue this. While I questioned why, I did take the time out of today to really start creating a plot, characters, and other such story things. While I do have a basic premise, this is still on the level of say, a rough draft and is currently being adlibbed based on what I think would make for a good joke. So yeah, I guess post what you'd like to see, questions, nitpicks, etc...

Anyway, I shall return back to my lair in the Rec Room. Have a goodnight.

Did you delete the one on the cata forum? Cause you should, fuck em.

8/10 needs more Highway/Lolis.

Quote from: Lorknis on March 01, 2015, 10:59:16 pm

8/10 needs more Highway/Lolis.

For some reason the quote button doesn't like to work for me. Anyway. So, the Highway will come into play eventually... lolis... save that for your fanfic bro.

Gotta hit quote, then open quick reply at the bottom of the screen. Or right click on quote and open a new window. Least if you're having the same issue I was of seeing a "loading" thing then no quote in the post.

The Director reclined back on the faux leather couch as the studio lights flashed on, blinding him in their furious light. "Welcome to the show Mr. Lorncraft!" The show's host said in his loud voice, straightening out his suit and reclining back in his chair, still wearing his fake smile across his face. "Its great to be here Barry!", his retinas burned as he tried to look past the glaring light, spotting a full crowd of equally eager faces. "So how are you doing?", the host asked moving into a hunched pose at the end of his seat. "Me? Oh I'm doing fantastic, I had a wonderful meal of lobster bisqu-" "That's nice, a round of applause for Mr. Lorncraft everybody." With the roar of the crowd, The Director reclined back in his seat in defeat, "It was going to be another one of those interviews."

The crowd began to quiet down as the host, lowered his hand, like he was calming a storm. "Now. Mr. Lorncroft, you've gotta tell us about this movie you're working on." "Its Lorncraft-" The Director tried to sputter out before being cut off by his host. "The movie!" The Host's demeanor changed from preppy to impatient, like a child that didn't get his 'treat' first. "The movie, yes... you see its about this Detective who gets shot up during the Chinese conflict and gets implanted with cyborg parts," he took a sip of warm water that was left on the table, he reeled in bitter disgust as the drink came to his lips. ", *ahem* anyway... the inspiration came to me when I realized that more and more people are ditching their skin to be "more"; when in reality they're regressing ou-" And for the last time he was cut off, the lights cut off in the studio, there were screams all around as heavily suited men burst through the doors. Their goggles lit up a fiery green, charging up their weapons, the slaps of their charging handles going into place; deafening silence took hold of the audience, with the gentle 'click' of safeties going off punctuating what would happen next.

His stomach had dropped in defeat, its weigh putting a burden on The Directors nerves. Adrenaline took hold as bright flashes of gunfire burst from the entry, bullets stormed into the studio as bright yellow shards of death. Ripping through anyone in their path, tearing apart the audience without care; people were collapsed on chairs or piled on top of each other in the small paths between the rows of seats.

With some quick thinking The Director rushed behind the couches to The Host's chair. The Host had taken a stray bullet to the right eye, viscous fluid leaked out of the chunky wound; quickly The Director grabbed his host's corpse and hoisted it over himself, playing dead as the massacre continued. For the remainder he listened to the cries of mercy coming from this slaughters victims.

---

With a jolt he shot straight up in his bed, clutching his sweat coated chest. He saw his (second) Assistant laying in bed beside him, in the nude. Powder was thrown all over the room, it looked like a Chicago blizzard blew in through the windows. Slowly The Director in his panicked state walked over to his clothes rack that wasn't spared in the Cocaine Storm, he pulled off a red bathrobe, dusting off the excess happy-dust before putting it on and heading outside.

It was another cloudy day in Miami, a common occasion nowadays. They were tinted dark grey, the wind was chilled The Directors exposed feet, and the smell of rain reeked permeated the air; but somehow it still managed to be humid, The Director peeled the bathrobe off his skin on more then one occasion. "Maybe today isn't a good day... nah might as well get one of the rain shots done and over with." He took a few minutes out of his long morning preparing the next shot for his film. It'd be one of the more melancholy scenes if he managed to stay sober through the shoot.




She sat in the plastic made lawn chair, its cheap material starting to hurt her back. Her brother sat on the rug in front of her, coloring away on the roof's concrete, trying to replicate the intersection that their home was built next to. The intersection was a military mess, APCs' shadows cast over the whole street; like the corpses of giants that were forgotten in a battle lost long ago, with no one to come claim their remains but the vultures. Speaking of, she thought she had spotted a few "vultures" lurking in the darkened alleys across from their building.

She turned down the radio slightly. "What is it?", he turned to his sister with concern. The lawn chair creaked as she lifted herself out of it, she crouched down low to the ground, giving just enough height to peer over the roof. "Vultures,", her brother gasped as the words left her lips. He knew what to do: Get inside the apartment, tell Mom, and then hide until the all clear is given. His little feet pattered against the cold concrete, followed by the "silent" slam of the roof's entry door.

She crawled over to the nearby AC unit, underneath was a youth's hunting rifle with a few rounds of .308 Caliber. Breaking the barrel, she inserted a cartridge and slammed the barrel shut. Taking position over by the ledge, she waited.

Everything put her on edge, even the shadows of the light poles swaying in the chilly wind had her on edge. Nothing was going to get passed her, nothing. It felt like an eternity before they started to show, "Vultures". Psssh. They were one of the many 'going-away' presents left by humanity; they looked vaguely humanoid if you squinted your eyes. They crawl around on their hands and feet, sniffing everything they get near as their eyes are permanently sealed by an extra layer of drooping skin that covers most of their body; covered in a thick-layer of mucus their bodies to shimmer white when exposed to light. They're mouths are a jagged mess of teeth, rows and rows of sharp canines circle around the inside of their mouths, allowing them to grind anything they eat into pulverized jelly.

They sprinted around the street, sniffing the air, biting chunks out of 'bait' that she left out. Dead house cats, dogs, and the like; there's no real use in having pets anymore in her mind, its just another mouth to feed. Which is also why she won't ever tell her brother where "Kittens the Cat" is, she knew it'd break his heart.

Taking a deep breath, she steadied her aim on the first to emerge, The Alpha. Its muscles bulged from its layers of snot, his nails were sharp and gnarly, and his mouth was blood covered and had pieces of cat pierced on the front rows of teeth.

Squeezing the trigger, a loud roar like a demon's came from below. The Alpha's chest had burst open, organs and mucus-like puss was sprayed all over the aged road. Desperately it tried to scoop its remains back inside itself, but it only made it worse. His nails torn and pierced the exposed innards, damaging them further. With one final screech of agony, it seized back and fell flat on its back. Unmoving. And like she predicted the rest howled against the cloudy skies, retreating in fear back from where they came.

Satisfied with her kill, she took a bottle of gasoline, lit the rag tied around it, and tossed it where the corpse lay. Missing by only a few inches, the gore burst into bright red flame before spreading to the rest of the body. The smell of burned flesh and rotten meat hung in the air, as she retreated back into her apartment.

---

Quaint, quaint was the best word to describe their space. It had a small radio on the kitchen table, the floors were mostly kept clean, the bathrooms are usually covered in filth, and the bedrooms are a mess of belongings that the siblings had collected over their lifespan. In the back she heard her mother go into another coughing fit, followed by the stomping of her brother's feet as he ran with a bucket to their mother.

She crept over to the doorway and peeked inside, her mother of hunched over the plastic mob bucket vomiting profusely. Chunky splatters of undigested food, coated the sides of the bucket. Her mother looked up at her; her eyes were red and the skin surrounding it was flushed, her lips were chapped, and the rest of her face spoke of 'death' despite what would follow. "Hey- *gasp* sweetheart... you find anything while you were gone." Neither her or her brother could figure out why their mother was this 'okay' with being sick. "We found plenty of food." "Did you run into anyone?" She asked. "No." The Sister said not making eye-contact. "Well your brother says otherwise." He slowly crept towards their mother hoping for some protection from his Sister's wrath, she glared at him but continued. "They were two harmless people, they wanted food, I fended them off." "If they were harmless then you should've shared your find."

After some vain attempts to convince Mom that they need to do what they can to survive, their mother slowly rushed out of bed and into the bathroom. It was probably another bout' of sickness that wouldn't require a bucket. With her and her brother left in the room, she grabbed him by the arm and tossed him out of the room. There were no words shared, just his head hung in shame and her shaking in anger. "You don't understand, dad isn't here to take care of us. And neither of you are able to figure that out yet." She opened up the window nearby, and sat on the perch outside. Her brother mournfully returned to his room.